


The Road Once Traveled

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas Isn't Canon, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Pining Idiots, Post-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: When it’s over-when Rittenhouse falls, the dust clears, and they’ve all been set up with new lives, new identities, and bank accounts funded by Mason Industries-She runs. Packs a bag, tosses it in the back of her car, and goes. There is nothing left for her there but painful memories and ghosts of a past she wants to forget. So she runs, and doesn’t look back.And Flynn….He comes with her.





	The Road Once Traveled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tsuuriki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuuriki/gifts).



> Hello, everyone! A million years ago (give or take), Tsuuriki sent me a prompt for Garcy going on a road trip after Rittenhouse falls. Soon after that, my brain decided it wanted to write angst and whump, and since this was specifically a request for a fluff prompt, I waited.
> 
> Now, it's finally finished! Prepare yourself for 3243 words of Lucy and Flynn being pining idiots who have no idea how to use their words.
> 
> A note on timelines and accuracy: Hedy Lamarr died in 2000. George died in 1959. They were never together. This is my fanfiction, and I'm saying that they are both still alive today, incredibly old, and by each other's sides.

When it’s over-when Rittenhouse falls, the dust clears, and they’ve all been set up with new lives, new identities, and bank accounts funded by Mason Industries-

She runs. Packs a bag, tosses it in the back of her car, and goes. There is nothing left for her there but painful memories and ghosts of a past she wants to forget. So she runs, and doesn’t look back.

And Flynn…

He comes with her.

There’s even less for him, no one to ask him to stay, so she does not feel too guilty when she invites him to come. It is only partially for her benefit; she cannot stand the thought of him being alone, either. He smiles when she asks, small and shaky from exhaustion, but impossibly warm. Of course he accepts. (She thinks he might follow her anywhere. That used to frighten her, but now, it only steadies. No matter what comes, she does not have to be alone in this world.)

For the first three days, they do not talk. Hardly utter a single word, beyond the necessities. Still, it is not awkward. There is an overwhelming sense of peace, at least for her, and she thinks it is the same for him. He is content to let her drive, spending half his time dozing in the passenger seat, the other half watching her. At nights, they stop, but by silent agreement, they do not find rooms. They recline their chairs, bury themselves under blankets, and sleep inside the vehicle. 

It’s in a diner in Ohio that she finally finds her voice. “You haven’t asked where we’re going.”

He blinks, as if the thought has never occurred to him.  _ Ridiculous man. _ “As long as we don’t have to deal with people trying to kill us, I’m happy.” 

It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask why, to get the confirmation she easily could, but she knows. They will have to talk about it soon, but right now, she simply wants to eat her pancakes, steal food off his plate, and talk about everything that means nothing. Or, perhaps, nothing that means everything. “There’s a ceremony in New Jersey. Where the Hindenburg crashed.” 

This does give him pause. “When?” He asks, but it is clear that is not his real question. 

She indulges it nonetheless. “Saturday. We’ll get there a little early, I think.” It’s Thursday, and the greatest part of the journey is behind them. After a breath, she adds, “I know, it’s strange. It just seemed right, you know? We’ve gone to all of these places, we’ve… Walked through history. I just… I want to see what it looks like now.”

He takes a moment to digest this, before nodding. “Everywhere, then?”

“I have a list,” she confirms. It briefly crosses her mind that he might not want to take this memory ride, and that she could offer to let him leave. But in the next instant, the uncertainty drains from his eyes.

“Must be quite a list,” he points out. “We’ve been to, what? Thirty places? Forty?”

“Not including Germany?” Because she has no interest in going back there, nor any desire to leave the safety of her car for something as confining as a plane. “Fifty-three.” 

He gives a low whistle, absently stabbing a piece of sausage with a fork. “That’s a lot of history. And you want to go see it all again?” 

“I do.” She drops her gaze, studying the patterns on the tablecloth. “I think… It’s the only way I’ll be able to deal with it.” Finally, she makes the offer she should have made from the start. “If you want to go back-”

He cuts her off firmly. “Lucy, I’m not here for the destination.” His expression is pointed, more than a little reminiscent of a shop in Chinatown, and a question never answered. Perhaps he knows this, expects her to ask again, because he draws in a steadying breath. When she doesn’t voice the obvious question, he leans back in his seat. “Now, tell me about this ceremony.” 

-

It seems only appropriate that it rains the day of the ceremony. More than half the group opts out, but Lucy cannot bring herself to do so. She needs this. As the speaker drones on, her focus drifts to spot, not fifty feet to her left, where the Hindenburg actually touched down. She can almost see herself standing there, wide-eyed, taking everything in. Staring at Flynn in terror, of all things, as the world burns around them. 

(It’s strange to think of that, now. She can hardly remember what it felt like to be afraid of him.)

A warm weight settles on her shoulders, and she is drawn back to the present. A coat, she realizes. Flynn’s coat. She tilts her head back to look at him, smiling in silent thanks. Quickly, though, her smile fades. He is tense, hardly breathing, and she knows she is not the only one remembering.

“Hey.” She tries to find the words to assure him, to comfort him the way he always does for her, but she does not know where to start. So she simply extends her hand to him. “My fingers are getting cold,” she murmurs, hoping he will understand.

After a startled second, he chuckles, shoulders relaxing, and catches her hand between his. “Well, we can’t have that.” His voice is impossibly low and fond. 

It may have been an excuse, but her hands truly are freezing, stinging from the icy rain, and she almost sighs in relief at the warmth he offers. Her fingers curl against his, and he squeezes gently, as if he could infuse every bit of his warmth into her. He would, she knows, if it were possible. 

She should look away, should return her focus to the ragged tour guide desperately trying to speak over the winds.

But she doesn’t, and neither does Flynn.

Maybe it is the weather, or exhaustion, or the sheer peace of the war being over, but she does not flinch away from his gentle awe. Steps a bit closer to him, in fact.

(It is only after-when the tour is over, when they are back in the car, trying to bundle against the cold-that it hits her: That was why she needed closure. The Hindenburg started all of this. Now, maybe, it can end it.) 

-

They do not go to every place on her list. 

It seems meaningless, in the end. There are memories she does not want to revisit, and the lingering taste of unfinished business has been washed away by the rains. Maybe one day she will want to see every place, to touch the remnants of the history she helped write, but just at the moment, she wants to go home.

She wants to sell her mother’s home, to find a place of her own, to plant a garden and begin a life. A real one, not one dictated by a narcissistic idealist. (And yes, of course, she wants to see how Flynn fits into that life, but that is still a Talk, and even though his hand has not left hers for more than a few minutes since that icy day, it is still a Talk they have not had. Soon, she thinks. Soon.)

But there is one more place she wants to go first.

Flynn’s eyebrows raise briefly when they pull up to a mansion, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Excuse me, Miss, you can’t be here,” a young man in a dark suit informs her. Security of some sort, she muses. Behind him, two others stand, ready to step in if she resists. 

She smiles. “Tell her that Lucy Preston is here to see her.”

He rolls his eyes. “I could do that. But she’ll say exactly what she says to all the other people who think that having a big name will get you through that gate: Get lost.” He gives a jerky nod for emphasis.

“Just tell her.” It never once crosses her mind that they might be turned away.

Sure enough, when he returns some five minutes later, it's with a puzzled face and an open invitation. More than once as they make their way up the marble steps,  he shoots them curious glances, but she only smiles in reply. 

It's strange, seeing her after all these years. The woman lying under a pile of faded blankets is frail, with thin, wiry hair and tired eyes. Another bed lay across the room, but the occupant is so covered up, Lucy cannot quite make out their face.

“Not quite as glamorous as you remember?” Hedy smiles weakly, her eyes dancing with unbearable fondness. 

“Even more,” Lucy tells her honestly, and she laughs. Lucy can feel the question in Flynn’s eyes without ever turning to look, but she does not know how to explain. (And there is little she can think of to say that would not hurt him. Yes, the only place from the list she cannot stay away from houses her warmest memories of Wyatt, but that is not why she has come. Would he believe her? She is not sure.) 

Hedy shakes her head softly. “And you, dear… You haven’t changed.” Then, she pauses, considering. “Or rather, your looks haven’t. You, though… You’re different.”

In so many ways, it’s true. She is not the awestruck girl twirling around in a Hollywood daydream any longer. Nor is she battered from a war that never seems to end. There is still scarring there, some bruises that will not fade, but she is healing. Free. 

“How long  _ has  _ it been?” Hedy’s eyes narrow. “For you, I mean?”

She seems completely unsurprised by time travel, which makes sense; after the things Rufus told her, she must have had some suspicion. “Three years.” 

Three long, grueling years. 

Hedy nods, then turns to Flynn, tilting her head to the side. “Now, I don’t believe you could have changed so much as all this, so you must be someone new.” 

Flynn steps forward, speaking for the first time since they reached the gate. “Garcia Flynn,” he says quietly, and Lucy flinches at his tone. Utterly polite, but he clearly knows where they are. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” 

With effort, Hedy extends a frail hand, which Flynn takes. Instead of shaking it, he bends down, dropping a kiss to her knuckle. 

“I think I like you better than the other one,” Hedy observes, and a smirk spreads across Flynn’s face. “Where is Wyatt, anyway?”

“He’s at home.” Lucy wills Hedy not to push. “With his wife.”

“Oh.” There is no judgement in Hedy’s tone, only sadness and understanding. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

All traces of humor fade from Flynn’s face as quickly as they came. Lucy aches to wrap her arms around him, to assure him that it’s okay, that they’re okay, that none of this is about Wyatt. She only wants to see one of the friends she made along the way one last time. But Hedy is waiting, so she draws a breath, choosing her words carefully. “It was,” she admits, “but I’m okay now. It all worked out.” Then, because neither Hedy nor Flynn seem quite convinced, she grabs onto a diversion: “Is George still…?”

It’s a naive hope at best; in her timeline, George died in 1959 of a heart attack. But a slow smile spreads across Hedy’s face, and she gestures to the neighboring bed. “Asleep.” Her brows furrow slightly. “He sleeps a lot, these days. Always tired, you know? But he’s still here.” 

Lucy cannot help herself. “You know he loves you, right?”

To her surprise, Hedy only laughs, a soft, heartbreaking sound that goes right through her. “Of course I know. But what good does that do now?” A cough cuts off her words, and Lucy is uncomfortably reminded of a lifetime before, sitting by her mother's bedside. “It’s not like I can go over there and-and kiss him senseless. It’d probably give us both a heart attack.” 

“But what a way to go.” The voice is scratchy, cracked, even worse than Hedy's, but there's no mistaking the laughter there. George moves, with effort, to face them, tugging the blanket from his face. 

An unexpected pink tinge covers Hedy's face, but she counters quickly. “I thought you were asleep.” 

“Maybe I am.” He closes his eyes briefly. “I mean, what you're saying sounds like… A dream come true.” There is no longer any teasing in his tone. The room seems thick with tension, years of words unsaid hanging in the air. (She does not try to pretend that she is not hyper-aware of Flynn's steady presence beside her.) 

“George…” Hedy looks impossibly tired, suddenly. “You do know that I…” Even now, the word seems to twist on her tongue. “You do know.” 

He does not reply at first. “I’m not sure,” he admits finally. “I never thought-” A coughing fit overtakes him, and for a brief moment, panic seizes Lucy’s throat. Flynn’s hand slips into hers, squeezing gently, and she clings. But then George calms once more, breathing evenly. “I never thought,” he finishes simply, and Lucy’s heart breaks. 

She knows what Hedy is going to say even before she opens her mouth. “I’m very glad you came to see me, Lucy. And your… Friend. But I think-”

“Of course.” She steps forward, taking the older woman’s frail hand in both of hers. “Take care, Hedy. George.” 

With that, she turns, not bothering to look back. She knows, she always knows, that Flynn will follow. 

They clear the gates before she finally finds her voice. “It’s crazy.” She can feel him watching her. “All these years he stayed with her, never knowing how she felt. Never even thinking he had a chance. I mean…” She sinks to the ground, the effort of walking the distance to the car far too much for her at the moment. “Can you imagine?”

He is quiet a moment too long. “Yes,” he says simply, and once again, she cannot breathe. “She wanted him to stay, so he stayed.” 

It is strange, she thinks, how much she has come to take for granted: His presence by her side, his feelings staying the same, and the way he lowers himself, always, to match her height. It is only now, when he remains resolutely standing, that she realizes. 

He does not look down, does not meet her eyes, just stands, tense, ready to flee if she orders him to do so. 

That is, she is certain, the last possible thing she wants. 

“She did.” She swallows. “She wanted him to stay.” And then, because that is not enough, because she is tired of running and pretending and hiding behind a facade- “I want you to stay.” 

A startled huff of laughter escapes him, and the tension drains from his shoulders. “Alright then.” He finally looks down at her, a soft smile on his face. “Ready to go?” 

He is so ready to accept this little morsel, is not pushing for more, is not even daring to ask the question that would be all too natural. It is enough for him that she wants him to stay.

It is not enough for her.

“I don't want _ that,”  _ she says, taking his hand, nodding back to the mansion as an explanation. A poor one, she realizes soon after, when his face falls a bit. He tries to hide it, but she catches a glimpse before he can school his expression. (And it is so unfair that the man who knows her better than she knows herself could still have no idea how much he means to her.) 

“I won't-” He shakes his head, stepping away from her slightly. “I understand, and I won't push. Just being here with you is enough, I-” 

She has been enough for him far longer than she has been enough for herself. “Garcia, that's not what I meant.” She has never called him that before, but it rolls off her tongue easily, and his expression goes too soft. Too vulnerable. “I don't-I don't want-” She does not know how to say this. “I don't want to be a hundred years old, with you in the next bed over, just-just talking about how-” The mental image claims her thoughts, and it is suffocating, trapping the next words in her throat. 

Still, he does not understand. “Lucy, I'll leave whenever you-whenever you want me to go. Just tell me, and-” 

She could shake him.

Thinks about it, briefly. 

Instead, she steps forward, resting a hand against his arm. His eyes dart to the contact, wide and unsure. “ _I don't want_ _that,”_ she repeats, grappling for words. “I want…” 

He stares at her, silently imploring her to tell him. Whatever she wants, whatever she asks for, she knows that he'll give without hesitation. All he wants is her instruction. But she cannot think of how to give it, not with words. So she draws her free hand up to his shoulder, and tugs. He comes without resistance at first, but when he realizes what she's doing, he freezes. Searches her eyes carefully. 

“Lucy?” 

“It's okay.” She rubs a tiny circle with her thumb, and he gives in, letting her lead him down. She meets him halfway, catching his lips with hers, and after a quiet gasp, he falls into the kiss. It is soft and tender, a thousand words they never said wrapped in hesitancy and hope. She cups his cheek, and he cautiously moves a hand to her waist, hardly daring to touch. 

When wetness hits her fingertips, she pulls back. 

His eyes are wide and glassy, and though tries to blink away the tears, it is to no avail. She draws a thumb across his cheek, brushing away each drop. For several seconds, he does not even breathe. 

“I don't want you in the next bed when I'm old,” she manages, and his eyes fall shut, dark lashes resting against his skin. He must be overwhelmed, must be trying to hide his inner turmoil from her, just as he always does. But not this time. She presses the softest of kisses against his forehead, though even with him still half-bent, face impossibly close to hers, she still has to push to her tiptoes to do it. “I don't want you that far away.” 

A shudder runs through him, and he might be biting back a sob, but in the next second, he gifts her with a brilliant smile. “Lucy.” He says nothing more, just stares at her in awe. It's how he always looks at her, how he's looked at her for longer than she can remember. She cannot help but giggle, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he lowers his forehead to hers. 

Now would be an ideal time to tell him she loves him, she thinks, but they have crossed enough terrifying lines for one day. So she simply takes his hand, drawing back slightly. “Shall we?” She gestures to the car. After a second, he nods, and they walk back hand in hand. 

-

One day, they will go to every place on her list. 

Maybe with a child in their arms, or two, or three. Or maybe just the two of them, walking through the memories side by side. 

Today, though, she doesn't want to travel anymore. 

She's ready to go home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!!!


End file.
